


Snow Fever

by Seek_The_Mist



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Movie Night, Pynch Secret Santa 2016, Sick Character, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seek_The_Mist/pseuds/Seek_The_Mist
Summary: Adam gets to spend his first Christmas at the Barns, only to find himself struck with a fever. The Lynch brothers and Opal still manage to fit all the stereotypical activity for a Christmas Eve night and make Adam better in the process

  "Adam prided himself with having a high chance of surviving to worse weathers than the Virginian winters, with just a t-shirt and ratty jeans.


  With this track record, being struck with the first fever of his last decade, on Christmas’ Eve, was utterly ridiculous."

 

  Written for the Pynch Secret Santa exchange 2016





	

**Author's Note:**

> The actual proof that I'm not dead and YES I'm still very much knees-deep in this fandom comes with my special brand of fluff.
> 
> This not-so-secret-anymore Santa was written for Lil-plant-kid, following her desire to have a fic involving "First Snow, Christmas Movie Marathon, Christmas Eve", with a side of Declan, Matthew and Opal.  
> This is what I came up with, every additional super-cheesy trope is mine and _I have NO regrets_
> 
> Before the big reveal, Lydia-St-James smoothly spotted me because of my use of degree Celsius! Damn you, Rachel, the US unreasonable metric system can BITE ME! XDDD
> 
>  
> 
> **Happy Holidays, dear readers, I hope you enjoy! <3 **

  
  
  


Adam’s world rocked in circles between the shivers down his back and the swimming of his vision.

Camped in the centre of the couch in the Barn’s living room, he considered again how thin the line between irony and idiocy ran for his current situation.

He had more than one decade worth of freezing Christmases in the trailer park ― always on the verge and trying to finish a too-dry turkey as quickly as possible before retiring to safety ― and he could even recall that December 24th when the Parrish’s car stalled in the pitch-black countryside to leave his mother and twelve-years-old Adam to walk the rest of the way back. Just last year, he had escaped to the factory, the warehouse a solid cluster of icy air to greet him since the only worker there to keep machinery in check was not worth the money for heating.  
Adam prided himself with having a high chance of surviving to worse weathers than the Virginian winters, with just a t-shirt and ratty jeans.

With this track record, being struck with the first fever of his last _decade_ , on Christmas’ Eve, was _utterly ridiculous_.

The -2°C outside were shielded by the cosy warmth of the Barn’s main house. He made a point of not snuggle closer to the lighted fireplace on the right side of the sofa and stay very still in his cocoon of three blankets ― the inner one being Matthew’s favourite _cashmere_ one ― to concentrate stubbornly on the television.

“All together, that and this, with all our tricks we're making Christmas timeeee,” Opal and Matthew were singing wholeheartedly to the soundtrack of Nightmare Before Christmas. Or, more accurately, the satyr girl cawed around every other vowel and the Lynch’s youngest was completely out of tune. Adam distractedly found himself smiling at their figures, their backs towards him from where they seated on the carpet in front of the sofa.

“Declan, Declan,” Opal’s sudden turn, still weirdly synched with the final words of the songs, snapped Adam out of his feverish stupor, “Can we turn the volume up? Just a bit?”

“No, you can’t, you’re already shrieking Adam’s head off as it is,” Declan smoothly replied, and Adam ― clammy, sweaty and dizzy ― envied him for the easy grace with which he moved around, even with a rounded glass full to the brim in his hands. “Here, family recipe,” he carefully handed Adam the glass, smirking only sideways at his struggle to free his hands from the layers of wool. 

“Thanks,” Adam murmured reflexively. The glass was hot under his palms and full of a deep red liquid; it looked like wine without smelling as such, two slices of oranges floating in it together with what looked like cloves, and a cinnamon stick laid on the brim like a wooden spoon. “What’s this thing again?”

Declan sat down in the corner of the couch, with one wrist balanced on the armrest, aristocratically elegant like a snake folding on himself. “Mulled wine, allegedly great-great-great-great-grandmother’s original recipe. Tastes like Christmas in Ireland,” the smile was still there, like he was only partially sharing this joke with Adam and keeping other secrets hidden in the fold of his expression.

Adam knew nothing about Ireland ― save from the Celtic music that Ronan blasted around in the Barns in lazy rainy afternoons ― and was not particularly knowledgeable about Christmas, but the first sip at the glass brought him all the _atmosphere_ that kitsch decorations and too-insistent songs in the shop failed to ever convey him.  
It was just hot enough to drink and spiced enough to feel ― even with the current tendency of Adam’s tongue to convert everything into ashes ― with the thick texture of wine but none of the alcohol, leaving just a deep sweetness behind.

“Good?” Declan distractedly asked, supervising Matthew stirring Opal further into the climax of the animated movie as if she wasn’t excited enough already. Not sensing any mockery, Adam felt comfortable with nodding ― even though he wasn’t Gansey, even though he would probably never achieve any type of real familiarity with the oldest of the Lynches. “Matthew, I don’t understand, isn’t this a Halloween movie?” Declan added, smoothly moving forward instead of dwelling in the silent musing he tended to share with Adam.

Matthew snorted, leaning back with his hands planted on the carpet to tilt his head backwards and look at his brother upside down, “It’s called Nightmare Before Christmas, dude, and this is the night before Christmas.” He winked for good measure, tilting his head conspiratorially towards Opal beside him, “But since Jack is from Halloween Town than it should be watched every day between October 31th and December 24th.”

Opal cawed in delight from where she was fishing for other old DVDs, the final credits of the movie steadily running on the screen.

“Stop making the brat overexcited, you little shit,” Ronan’s voice was full of fake reprimand while he made his way from, presumably, the kitchen, towards the rest of them. Matthew was not fooled, if his blatant laugh was anything to go by. “Keep laughing and you can say bye to the dessert ― which none of you helped me to bring over, so what the fuck.”

He put down an ill-shaped cake on the coffee table ― brownish and round, with unevenly thick glazing that was probably too dense ― immediately shifting the focus of most of the room. 

“I fished out the forbidden recipe, so that’s my contribution there,” Declan regally proclaimed, inspecting the cake with critical eye. It was hard to pin, but it was possible that he was amused without being annoyed.

“And I helped you with all the mixing and shit, Ronan, come on!” Matthew added, already fishing the knife to cut himself a piece.

“Yeah, you did, and look how the fuck it looks, nothing to brag about,” Ronan retorted, taking a spot next to Adam on the couch. “And drop the fucking swearing.”

Adam had to laugh at that, snorting on his mulled wine glass and resettling on the cushions to fit Ronan better in the remaining space.

“The point should be the taste and you know it!” Matthew protested, starting a messy distribution of too-big pieces of cake, worsening the situation from the aesthetic point of view. Still, Adam made his best to balance the glass and the napkin with the cake when Matthew gingerly offered it to him. “You have no say in whether it’s good or not, either. Adam should tell us!” 

Matthew’s smile was even more contagious than usual in the hazy atmosphere that his fever granted to everything and everyone. “I’m not sure how competent I am for the task at the moment. I already wasted the dinner, basically,” Adam admitted, trying and most likely failing at being as sober and collected as he would like to be. 

There ought to be some kind of really dark humour in being offered the nicest dinner in the quieter environment he’s ever experienced in his life ― and not having to do mental gymnastic against himself about it because Christmas is a social convention ― and not being able to enjoy it properly.

“You wasted fucking nothing, shithead,” Ronan immediately countered, rearranging beside him again, “We just have more leftovers for tomorrow. When you’ll be better. Speaking of which…” he rummaged in the pockets of his jeans ― Christmas Ronan was dressed exactly as Everyday Ronan ― to fish out some blisters of pills, “...your four hours are up. Down it, Parrish.”

Adam balanced the cake in the folds of his blanket pile to pick up his meds from Ronan. “The Christmas bounty: turkey, cake, paracetamol and ibuprofen,” he joked to himself and to the rest of the dining room, effectively downing everything with the warm mulled wine. 

Declan stopped his dismembering of the cake ― because eating it in tiny shapeless pieces was evidently more satisfying ― to look up at Adam with an ironic grin, “Next up, Xanax and real wine, for the Christmas bounty of the suburban nightmare.”

Matthew’s resounding laughter was unrestrained enough to be almost rude and it was difficult for Adam not to snort as well. When he glanced towards Ronan, a sharky smile was expanding on his face, making him dangerously handsome and _at home_ at the same time.

“Keraaaah!” Opal’s shrill cut through the laughters, catching everyone's attention. It was easy to spot her in the corner between a plant and a bookshelf ― the cake was not nearly metallic and clattering enough to appeal to her ― because of the reindeer antlers on her head. Matthew had gifted her the headband, all red felt and jingling bells on the top, and she had since refused to take them off. 

“The sound of doom...what, brat?” Ronan’s grand scene of annoyance was hindered by the undivided focus he reserved to Opal while she stomped back towards the couch. The effect of the antlers was even more hilarious when mixed with her furry satyr legs and hooves. 

“Can we watch this, can we? We can,” she blabbered, festive high as every kid would be and probably a bit sugar high from all the candied fruit she had deemed as the only exception to a tin-can-only diet. Her small hands were clutching on an old DVD copy of Home Alone and her big, wide eyes were the picture of pleading.

“Jesus, brat,” Ronan sighed, a bit theatrical, “Since this morning, we’ve seen the Nutcracker, the Grinch and you just switched Nightmare Before fucking Christmas off.”

Opal batted her eyes, all smooth defiance, as if there were no issue with the picture Ronan was describing, “Yeah, so? That’s a different movie.”

Declan’s laughter was more barked and open than Adam has ever heard it before, “Wow, Ronan, I’m having war flashbacks.”

“Fuck off, Declan,” Ronan retorted, the reflexive annoyance smoothed down by the fact that Matthew busted out laughing and Adam was having a hard time not to follow suit. 

“No, really, who’s her maker again, I would never have guessed,” Declan pushed a bit, more good-natured than he had ever been before about Ronan making _living_ stuff. 

“Whatever, shitface,” the rumbling sound was not even half as menacing as it could have been. Ronan waved his hand to Opal, “Put that stuff on, but if you even _try_ to booby trap the Barns I’m dreaming you a cage and I’ll hang you in there by your fucking hooves.”

Opal cawed her delight, rushing to take advantage of the permission while they all resigned to sit tight and enjoy the all-to-familiar movie, somehow. Somewhere in the distance, either outside or in an echoing corner of the house, Chainsaw replied in tow.

Adam found himself weirdly distracted by the proceeding, as if the amount of movement and noise around him ― though welcome and sort-of-comforting ― were overwhelming for his feverish senses. It took him a bit too much to realize that Declan had delicately picked the empty glass off his hands, and by that time Matthew was already clearing off the half-eaten cake and the napkin.

“How was the cake?” Matthew asked, blabbering a bit more about the preparation while Opal ― apt to technology in spite of her few months of experience out of Cabeswater ― started the movie.

“Good. Everything is good.” Sagging a bit more in his blanket nest, Adam strained to smile to all of them. “Really,” he felt the need to stress it, feeling too _diffused_ in his sickness to properly communicate anything.

“Good,” Ronan echoed, softly, letting the noise of the movie fill the living room once again.

Adam wasn’t sure there was a way to convey how properly grateful he was to the Lynches. For the dinner, for the company, for the warmth and the meds. For not making it awkward. It likely didn’t matter, but he kept mulling over the concept.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The next burst of conscience Adam experienced was sudden and confused, completely out of context. 

He felt really heavy, grounded and warm, confusedly aware of a collection of random sensations: the bent of his neck was a bit clammy, Matthew’s cashmere blanket was soft under his hand, his veins were no longer shivering through an unnatural iciness.  
The clatter of exaggerated, artificial noises had pulled him up but the tendrils of sleep were pushing him back down.

“Tune that shit down, brat,” Ronan’s voice directed, filtering through the cotton of Adam’s head. 

One strong arm readjusted around his shoulders, and something ― Ronan’s skin, Ronan’s body ― shifted under Adam’s cheek. 

Lacking the strength to even open his eyes, Adam let himself slide, the crook of Ronan’s neck welcomed him as the only possible resting place. Between the beginning and the end of a sigh, Adam fell back asleep.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Waking up again was slow and much less tortuous, like emerging after a long dive and losing yourself in the glide of the water on your skin while you naturally float upwards. 

Fingers combed slowly through his hair, almost distracted and yet never once pulling on knots or getting struck ― a simultaneous performance in disinterest and care that could only belong to Ronan. The sensation was foreign but perfectly matched with the receding ache in Adam’s bones. More vigil by the minute, Adam let himself soak in the utter comfort of it, like a plant stretching its leaves against the Sun after a long exile in darkness. 

The excited clutter of conversation from different voices had the quality of background noise, only really reaching him when Ronan replied something and the vibration spread through Adam’s skin. It made him aware of how warm he was feeling, just on the verge of uncomfortable whereas before it had been barely enough to keep the cold at bay. His legs were stretched more unevenly than the couch alone should allow, and something heavy rested on his left knee. 

“…After all, brat, I’m sure you saw snow before in Cabeswater,” Ronan was saying, half-laughter in his voice. 

“Oh, come on, Ronan!” That was Matthew’s voice, the type that was trying to squeeze involvement in a mischief from Ronan. It usually worked wonders. 

“Okay, I’m sure _you_ definitely saw snow before in your sorry life as a fucker.”

“But it’s Christmas!” Matthew protested.

A chuckle from Declan, completing Adam’s mental pictures of their positions around him, “Keep milking the excuse for all it’s worth, Matthew.”

“Please please please,” Opal little voice chanted more in the distance, the tiny thump of her hooves on the hardwood floor a suggestion of her jumping up and down to stress her point.

Adam slowly let himself open his eyes, even though the constant combing of Ronan’s fingers inspired the type of lethargy he had always been denying himself. He blearily looked forward, to find an expanded mess of blankets throughout the couch, in blatant disregard of his previous effort to contain himself in the centre. His right leg was stretched on top of the bended left one, and rested arrogantly on _Declan’s_ thighs, of all places. He diverted his gaze downwards, only to catch the crazy mess of Matthew’s golden curls from the point where the youngest brother rested his temple against his knee. Ronan’s chest was an unmovable and reliable support against his side.

His stomach flipped in a funny way.

He could not dwell on the notion of being slotted between the three Lynch brothers as if he belonged there. Declan’s eyes caught his own, and the askew politician smirk told him he had been spotted.

“Is it snowing?” He slurred out, matching the bits of overheard conversation in the most coherent sentence he could muster in such a short period of time.

“Yes, and these little shits want to go and have a goddamn _snowball fight_ or whatever the fuck,” Ronan replied, stilling his hand and tilting his head to the side to try and sneak a better look at his face. For the rest, he threw Adam back into the conversation as if he had never left it to collapse in a drug-induced slumber.

“Sounds fun,” Adam admitted, with an agreeable smile, “You should go.”

“You see?!” Opal trilled, smiling wide like a victorious shark at Adam and Ronan from where she stood, close to the window and behind the TV screen. The ending titles of Home Alone still flashed there, paused.

Ronan’s sigh had something of a growl, rumbling through his throat, “We’re not going the fuck outside, not when Parrish is sick.”

“I’m actually feeling much better now…” Adam quickly conceded, while covertly retreating his leg away from Declan’s thigh ― puzzled by the Lynches’ acceptance of him and by his own feverish easiness around them. 

Opal’s reaction to the news was delightedly hopeful; Ronan’s was more on the verge of _murderous_. “We’re _not_ going the fuck outside when Parrish’s meds just took effect. I don’t give a shit if you wanted pneumonia as a Christmas present.”

As endearing as the fierce burst of protectiveness from someone like Ronan ― who did is best to compete as living embodiment of _not giving a fuck_ ― Adam had the unpleasant sensation of _spoiling the mood_ , so carefully constructed to be as Chrismasy as possible throughout the day.

Free from the pinning weight of Adam’s leg, Declan got up with one fluid movement, crease-free clothes and spotless hair as if he hadn’t spent hours slouching on a messy couch. “Luckily, we have a sound 60% of independent adults in the room. Matthew, Opal, go put your coats and shoes on and don’t forget the gloves,” he smoothly directed, sparing a glance to Ronan that promised a challenge without actively encouraging it.

“Hey, I’m not a kid!” Matthew protested, even while scrambling to get up from the floor and away from Adam’s knee. 

“Debatable,” Declan mocked, moving aside to barely dodge Opal’s overexcited galloping towards the entrance. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Ronan gritted out, instantly annoyed by the whole ordeal, even though it was indeed a good compromise. 

“Why? It’s a snowball fight, not the Moon landing, Ronan. I trust Adam to be able to deal alone with your charming personality for half a hour,” Declan’s smirk widened, as if to say _if he can’t than you have a bigger problem_.

“Fine, whatever, fuck off,” Ronan muttered, somehow lured but still reluctant in conceding the point.

Declan waved his hand in salute, joining Opal and Matthew at the entrance and getting swallowed whole by their clattering. “We’ll be back before midnight,” was the last reassurance before he closed the door behind them.

The atmosphere in the living room tilted in a peculiar way ― another one of the _Barns’ effects_ Adam had yet to categorize properly ― as soon as the three of them were out. On one hand, Ronan and he had a much better equilibrium to steady them, honed through magic quests and flaring arguments; on the other hand, the clutter of the room around them spoke of absence, even though they literally just went outside the door.  
Adam, who usually welcomed being left behind with relief, barely had a moment to contemplate the change, before Ronan turned around beside him.

“Declan is a fucking asshole, the two brats should’ve suck it up. If they’re not back in 20 minutes I’m gonna fucking maim them,” he growled, which in Ronan’s language was the closest think to a considerate _sorry_ possible.

Adam shed some blankets from his shoulders, folding them up distractedly and letting his joints crack satisfactorily in the process. “Yeah, sure, Opal would’ve sucked the life out of us,” he stressed, with an eloquent look, “and you could’ve gone as well, it’s really just outside the door.”

The unimpressed lift of Ronan’s eyebrows, sharp enough to cut and the prelude of heated fistfights in situation less mollified than a late evening at the Barns, toyed silently with Adam’s intimate struggles. “It’s fucking Christmas. That shithead of Declan should follow his own advice and be _civil_ about it.”

In the warm mixture of smells and lights of the living room, Ronan’s refusal to leave him behind was left mostly unexpressed. Adam felt known and unknown, rightful member and stranger to a family that he had not yet consider as a possibility for himself ― not like this, not with these utterly open terms.  
He stared at the garden outside, a conglomerate of darkness broken only by the lights Declan had turned on. The snow was falling strongly enough that the flakes fluttered around like a white curtain in the wind. Opal and Matthew scrambled around in an obvious attempt of coordinating an attack towards Declan, whose dark hair were already messed up and half-covered in snow.  
Adam let himself exhale, breaking his unconscious attempt on stalling by turning towards Ronan again. 

“Come on, Lynch, I know this stupid fever is a good excuse to not let them wipe the floor with you,” a smile tugged his lips, and he hadn’t been completely aware of what he was planning on saying until he finished saying it.

Ronan’s face stayed twisted in a frown, but lost the previous sullenness, “My face, Parrish? Your scrawny ass is on the line here.”

Their foreheads touched, making Adam vaguely aware of how his hair were awkwardly plastered on his face even now that the feverish sweat had mostly dried up, “Not before I hand it yours on silver platter and you beg for mercy.”

“Uuuh,” Ronan cooed, with exaggerated amazement, tilting his head to the side.

Adam was captivated by the situation enough to let his eyelids fall a bit, kissing the suggestive expression out of Ronan’s face when their lips touched.

As he had undoubtedly encouraged the action, he was the one to retreat, wrinkling his nose at Ronan. “I was frying, like, half a hour ago, for God’s sake,” he scolded, finding himself incapable of saying the _don’t kiss me_ that should have been the core of the matter.

Ronan scoffed, theatrical again, “You’re no fun and at this point I kind of want to prove you whose fucking ass is on the fucking line.” The glittering of his eyes was too pleased not to scream of incoming trouble. 

Adam eyed him carefully; in the garden, Opal was screeching high enough to be audible from the inside and the snow was settling at a worrying pace. “Still not the type of weather I can go out in, so we’ll need to wait to settle it.”

“Yeah, sure, Parrish,” Ronan dodged his attempt of reasoning, leaning towards him even more, until his head dropped heavily on Adam’s shoulder. “Watch me,” he murmured.

By now, Adam had seen it happen enough times to recognize that Ronan was about to dream something new and marvellous. He raised both hands, tracing his fingers on Ronan’s nape, approximating the path of the tattoo, even knowing that it might have changed since last night. Ronan sagged heavily against him in a relaxation that was evidently forced, at first; then his breath deepened, stuttering slightly between an exhaling and the next.

Adam felt within his rights to place his cheek on the crown of Ronan’s head, spikey with buzzed hair. The angle was not-so-subtly optimized to indulge himself in watching the process of appearance first-handily, as if he’d never saw Ronan manifesting things before. He just waited, in the pleasant smell of wood burning in the fireplace, unfamiliar, even though Ronan smelt a bit like it as well.  
One second, Ronan’s wide palms laid open on his lap, in the shadowy space between their bodies; the next, two thick spheres of vapour spun between his relaxed fingers, getting bigger by the moment and expanding until Adam could see nothing but white.

The weight of Ronan against his chest stayed still and unresponsive for more than a minute, enough for Adam to track what was evidently a cloud, inflating and rising to cover up the whole living room ceiling.  
By the time Ronan started to stir, it was snowing inside just as outside, though the temperature of the room had not dropped of a notch. While Adam could feel the perfect consistency of fresh snow in his hands, nothing was melting, just accumulating in raising piles.

“So, what do you think?” Ronan asked, his voice still thick with torpor but all-too-eager to be praised for the results.

Adam stopped staring at the snow in his hand to look at him. “It’s…I can feel it’s cold but it’s not _making me cold_ , how the hell can you do this?” The disbelief in his tone was difficult to shake, even though the impossibility of Ronan and the sheer fantasy of his mind’s creation were far from new.

Ronan just laughed, open and self-satisfied, and scrambled to get up. “You can take a picture with my phone, even show it to Gansey when we’ll Facetime him later,” he conceded, like a magnanimous ruler, even while wearing the classic expression of Ronan-up-for-apocalypse.

The pendulum clock down the hallway started to rang for the midnight, with a booming sound that resembled a bell in a church tower than a piece of furniture. Opal, Matthew and Declan were causing an insensible amount of commotion while opening the door.

Adam let Ronan drag him up from the couch with a strong pull on his arm. “First round is against the losers, Parrish,” he suggested, with an eloquent flick of his eyes towards the entrance of the living room.

Everything was starting to get covered in dream-snow and it was easy enough to pick handfuls of it up and ball them properly.

“Sure, Lynch, bide your time before I destroy you,” Adam was seriously struggling not to laugh.

“You fucking wish…” Ronan barely started replying before getting interrupted by his older brother.

“Ronan, what the hell is going on here?” Declan’s voice was full of incredulity. At least Adam was not the only one still having a hard time in dealing with dream antics.

Ronan, merciless as usual, just bent his arm and threw a snowball squarely in Declan’s face. The mirth in his expression conveyed perfectly how intentional this declaration of war was. 

The living room turned into a fighting pit in less than five words.

“Merry Christmas, ass-shat!”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> If you feel the need to go wash your teeth, I understand.
> 
> Ways to communicate with me are: kudos, comments and delirious asks for which my [Tumblr](http://seekthemist.tumblr.com) is always open! :3333


End file.
